


Give Me the Morning

by lonelywalker



Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-26
Updated: 2011-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-15 02:34:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deb is the one with the traumatic history, but Lundy's the one who has a nightmare. Deb shows him the patented Debra Morgan method for getting over angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give Me the Morning

Debra's entitled to her nightmares. He'd read her file, among many others, on his flight down from DC, and no one in his profession could help but be intrigued. A police officer engaged to a serial killer… He could easily have dismissed her as some foolish girl with no sense or instincts, as she tends to dismiss herself. But he'd focused more on her extraordinary ability to not only survive her encounter with Brian Moser, the Ice Truck Killer, but return to work at Miami Metro.

He'd wondered if he could ever be that strong.

By the time they come back to his apartment in the evening, after picking up a few things from Debra's place and shopping for breakfast food, he's about ready to drop. Long days are no stranger to him, but this one has been longer than most - despite the fact it had begun, for the first time in years, with a beautiful young woman draped over him in bed.

They eat leftover quiche with leftover wine, and she makes love to him between sheets still rumpled from the morning. Debra's no good at all at taking things slowly, but this time is sweet and gentle and exactly what he needs.

When she's finished setting the alarm, all beeps and bloops, he pulls her into his arms and feels her relax into him. It's nice, for once, to know that she's not fidgeting, not nervous, not afraid.

So perhaps it isn't so strange that it's he who wakes up hours later in a cold sweat, disoriented and confused, as out of breath as he is trying to take his daily jog in this horrible Miami humidity.

Deb is still asleep next to him, muttering into her pillow as he disentangles his arm from hers, slipping out of bed and grabbing clean boxer shorts and a t-shirt from a drawer on the way. It's late and he needs the sleep, but there's a primal voice inside him, urging him to just get away.

"Lundy?"

He's just about finished making himself a sandwich in the kitchen when Debra appears, bleary-eyed, stifling a yawn, and wearing the shirt he'd wearily dropped to the floor the previous evening. "Did something break on the case?"

She couldn't be more adorable, and he couldn't feel more guilty for waking her. "Yes. I'm interrogating the peanut butter on suspicion of aiding and abetting the jelly."

"Oh really?" Deb peeks over the edge of the breakfast bar, and wanders around to lean against him, arms around his waist. "Comfort food, huh?"

He slices the sandwich into quarters, and holds one up over his shoulder for her to bite. "Sorry I woke you."

"Mm…" She wipes jelly from her mouth. "Was I snoring? Or talking? Or kicking you?"

"Just a bad dream," he says, picking up the plate and going to sit on the couch, expecting that she'll just drop the subject. "I'll come back to bed in a bit."

But she follows. "Want to talk about it?"

"I think dealing with my problems is the last thing you need." It's only when he sits down that his tired brain realizes what he's said. "Sorry. I just…"

"Tell me." She's far nicer at this early hour than he would be, sitting on the edge of his coffee table, stealing another sandwich. "Everyone knows I'm way better at fixing other people's problems anyway, right?"

From one perspective, they barely know each other. From another, she knows more about him than anyone has in years, and he simply isn't used to talking about himself. "I…" He studies his fingers. "It's nothing. I should've moved on by now. Thought I had. It's been two years, and…"

She takes his hand with sticky fingers. "Your wife?"

If there's a worse topic to be talking about with his brand new girlfriend, he can't think of it. "My wife," he agrees. "I dreamed I was losing her again… I'll be fine in the morning. It's just… It seemed so real. And it still feels like that, like she was just here, so close I could almost…" He sucks in air and tries to shake off the remnants of the dream. "Another sandwich?"

Debra shakes her head no, taking the plate from him and setting it down as she moves to sit on his lap. “I know you’re the Zen guy here, but in my experience… It’s okay to feel like that. And it doesn’t mean you’re living in the past, it just means… she’s still a part of you, and always will be.”

“You’ll be eating cucumber sandwiches next,” he jokes, but her words resonate. She’s lost someone too, after all – both her parents, and the man she’d thought she would marry. So much heartache for such a young woman. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“Uh huh.” She shifts over him, drawing closer. “I was thinking… since you’ve helped me find Chopin and that quiet place and whatever… maybe you should try the patented Morgan way of dealing with angst.”

He raises his eyebrows, mouth quirking with a grin. “I should pick up a hot guy at the gym?”

“Shh.” And she kisses him, hard and insistent until he relaxes and just _lets_ her, his eyes closing, arms tight around her. She tastes of peanut butter and bread and jelly, but she’s very much real, and very much here, pushing fragments of troubled thoughts far away.

They’re replaced by the thought of how much he’s missed this, just having someone he’s completely comfortable with, just kissing and feeling and loving, the way he had with Connie. He strongly doubts that he’ll be with Deb for thirty years, but now is what matters.

Deb is tugging his shorts down past his hips, hand stroking his balls, her thumb running down the length of him. For a moment he thinks he’ll disappoint her, that it’s too soon, that his mind is still preoccupied, but then the pleasure and the joy washes through him and he opens his eyes, set on getting her all the way out of his shirt.

“This is a really nice couch,” Debra is murmuring, shrugging out of the shirt, fingers curled around his erection. “And you have a really fucking nice cock.”

He wants to touch her everywhere, stroking back her hair, feeling the swell of her breasts, the slim curve of her hips. “C’mere,” he whispers, and she falls forward, kissing him hungrily as she lets him slide all the way inside. She’s so wet, so ready, so perfect that he moans into her mouth, hips bucking up into her without even a thought.

“Jesus fuck,” Deb says with conviction, stripping him of his t-shirt so violently he’s pretty sure she takes some skin along with it. “Just gotta fucking _touch_ you.”

He might not have been much of a prize in the shirtless department in a good twenty years, but she makes him feel like a horny teenager with a foot-long dick, her tongue in his mouth, her hands all over him, her body moving with such delicious sensuality he can barely think of anything else.

“Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he manages to say, the edge of his thumb finding her clit, feeling her burning hot against him, muscles clenched tight.

There’s the barest hint of a smirk on her face, and then she’s gone all too easily, crying his name - _Frank_ this time – but still moving, desperate to take him with her. And, when it comes, it’s as though the orgasm is ripped from him, sudden and brutal, his fingers too tight on her hip as he spills out white-hot inside her.

For a long time afterward, there’s nothing but harsh breaths in a quiet room, a glorious ache through his body, and Debra clinging to him, warm and wonderful.

And that, he decides, must be the best dream of all.


End file.
